BOOK ONE OF THE SWEET AND SOUR SERIES
Vanya Sharma hated marriages. Growing up seeing troubled and failed marriages carved a bitter spot in her heart, especially when one of them belonged to her parents. While escaping the shadows of her past, she f...
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༘⋆🌷🫧💭₊˚ෆ
𝐁𝐚𝐝𝐭𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐞𝐳 𝐝𝐢𝐥
ज़िद पकड़ के खड़ा है, कमबख़्त छोड़ना जाने ना
📓
08:39 Pm, 15th March, Club Volt, Gurguram
It's been two days since we arrived at the wedding venue, and I'm still recovering. Honestly, weddings should come with a survival manual. Or a quiet corner where introverts can breathe. Not that I'd get to use one anyway, considering how chaotic everything's been.
The sangeet and mehendi ceremonies went by in an absolute blur. One moment I was sitting quietly, trying to blend into the background, and the next, I was being pulled into the whirlwind of dances, photos, and our mothers asking me when Mahir and I were planning to 'give them good news.' Good news? The only good news you'll get is us divorcing after a year.
Shockingly, everything went smoothly. No uncalled disasters, no missing jewellery, no drunk chaos. A miracle, really. Although, it's possible I missed something because I spent half the sangeet hiding behind Kavya whenever anyone tried to make me dance.
Now we've reached the haldi phase. It's supposed to be my chance to relax since I'm no longer the centre of the universe—for about five minutes. Except there's a catch.
"Mahir and you are to stay away from each other until the wedding," his mother told me. It's supposed to be traditional or lucky or something, but honestly? I could kiss whoever came up with this rule.
Not that I don't like Mahir. Okay, maybe I don't. But I'd rather spend the time before this undesired matrimony, to myself.
Truthfully, though, I think this 'stay away until the wedding' rule has potential. Why stop there? Maybe we could extend it? You know, give each other some extra space—say, a couple of feet or maybe... a room? A floor? An entire country sounds good.
Loud and obnoxious hooting snaps me out of my thoughts and I'm reeled back into the present. A club. For my supposed bachelorette.
I slump deeper into the booth, glaring at the flickering neon light above that seems as indecisive as I am about being here. The bass from the speakers rattles the table, making the sad little bowl of nachos in front of us tremble like it's at a rave of its own.
On the dance floor, Kavya is thriving—whirling around like some chaotic fairy godmother granted her two wishes: endless vodka shots and absolutely no shame. She grabs a stranger's hands, twirls herself around, and cackles like a maniac getting away from her nth successful murder.
Next to me, Dravya slouches, holding his beer bottle like it's the only stable thing in his life. "Why," he slurs, his head lolling to the side, "do we let her do this to us?"
